Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (30 page)

2:26 p.m. Dyspeptic Marcel the clown not impressed when Mrs. Fulke demonstrated her new ball facility after lunch. Said he had seen better juggling from an armless blind man. He seemed even deeper in the dumps than usual, so I decided to draw him out. “Did you know that new horn player used to be Reina’s boyfriend?” Mrs. Fulke inquired.

Marcel gave me a look the color of midnight in the dungeon.

“
He thinks he still is.”

“
Perhaps, but Reina doesn’t need a man.”

“
She didn’t,” he commented ominously.

“
What, what do you mean by that?”

“
Are you blind as well as stupid, Mrs. Fulke? It’s the new monkey. It has changed the equation completely.”

“
How so?”

“
Reina has seen a real baby—or a close enough approximation. Much more cuddly than a parrot.”

“
She wants one herself?”

“
Nature cannot be denied, Mrs. Fulke. But who will be chosen? That is the question. We are about to witness an epic struggle between the man of action and the artistic personality.”

“
Tarkan Batur versus Jiri Mestan?”

“
And perhaps other contenders,” he snapped, strolling away.

Beware the littlest monkey. Paul was right!

7:17 p.m. War may have commenced. First skirmish at today’s matinee? I noticed during the wild-riding Batur Family performance there were some decidedly flat notes erupting from the horn section— especially when Tarkan was attempting something particularly neck-breaking. These musical punctuations inspired the audience to laugh rather than cheer. Scowling Tarkan not amused.

No sign in the crowd of my goateed wife, alas. Much less facial hair out here in the sticks than in Paris, so she’d be easy to spot. Lots of pretty girls though. Never seen such a concentration of beauty. No wonder the Germans were always invading.

10:42 p.m. Black despair. Lovely Reina just seen strolling in the moonlight with both contenders. Noticed Marcel skulking in shadows. Wish he’d do the honorable thing and waste the competition. Aren’t clowns supposed to have a dark side? I could see him laughing maniacally as he flails away with his bloody hatchet. Jesus, sometimes I even scare myself.

My problem? I think my orgy has worn off. Despite prolonged mental funk and fresh new “Life Sucks” philosophy, hormones are reasserting themselves. I need it bad and I don’t particularly care where I get it. Not a very enlightened attitude, but, hey, it works for the roustabouts. Not to mention Number Three. Yes, God, for my next life, I’m praying I return as a monkey.

SATURDAY, July 30 — Why do these Saturdays roll around like clockwork to remind me of my missing wife? It’s a hell of a way to start the weekend. Next time I’m going to get married on a Monday. That day already starts out depressing.

Mr. Granola showed up at breakfast with his moustache waxed and sticking straight out obscenely at the sides like hairy red dagger points. You’d think being married, over 30, and English would be handicap enough for the guy. Love propels men in strange directions, as I can attest as Mrs. Fulke’s bra straps chafe ever deeper into my shoulders. She’s so much less fun to be than the late, lamented Carlotta—that sprightly wannabe vamp, who was born to tease. Let’s face it: Mrs. Morag Fulke is just an ugly old crone with bad b.o. and horrible clothes. Nobody is going to ask her to the prom. 10:45 a.m. New scandal wracking the Cirque Coco-Poco. Someone has immersed Jiri Mestan’s prized trumpet in a vat of oily sludge drained from the crankcase of the diesel generator. Amazingly, this act of vandalism cannot be laid at my doorstep. I didn’t do it. Honest! Now there is fear that grit has worked its way into the valves, necessitating a total rebuild. Therefore, outraged Jiri reduced to using the circus’s dented loaner horn, still redolent with Paul Saunder’s talented saliva. Despite this encumbrance, Madame Poco has warned him to play it straight. Further musical improvisations will not be tolerated. She asked Tarkan if he had any knowledge of the deed, but he responded as if the whole matter were beneath his contempt. 11:12 a.m. Just received a call from Violet, the sexy Brit who is bending over backwards (and forwards?) for T.P. She got my new number from Madame Ruzicka and was checking in to see how France’s best-loved fugitive was getting on. I told her my life was only slightly worse than that of a deep-shaft coal miner in China. Violet was sympathetic, but had more urgent matters to discuss. Apurva has just hopped a plane in San Francisco. No, she is not going to visit her poor exiled bro in India. She arrives in Paris tonight! “Uh-oh,” I gasped. “What does Trent say?”

“
Not a great deal, Rick. He just lies face down on my bed and moans. I think the poor dear is on emotional overload. Mr. Bonnet is merciless. Trent has made six media appearances in the last four days. Did you see him on TV?”

“
Sorry, Violet. I don’t have a TV.”

“
No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Well, he was marvelous, of course.

The French love that he’s so charismatic and speaks their language. But now I’m afraid he’s having a nervous breakdown. You’re his best friend, Rick. What should I do?”

Why does everyone suppose Trent and I are pals? Just because he hasn’t ratted on me (yet) to the cops doesn’t mean we’ve stopped despising each other.

“
Well, Violet, my advice would be to move Trent back into my apartment and to pretend you’re just friends while Apurva’s there.”

“
But what if she wants to sleep with my darling?”

“
Well, does Trent wish to sleep with her?”

“
Of course not. He loves me!”

“
Then he should just tell her he’s temporarily impotent from the strain of becoming a media superstar. He could tell her that Elvis had the same problem back in 1955.”

“
I never knew that, Rick.”

“
Violet, I just made it up. Elvis had girls coming out of his ears. But it always helps to have some credible facts on your side when you’re telling a major whopper.”

“
You don’t think we should tell Apurva the truth?”

“
You can if you want, but it’ll get ugly. Apurva is pretty formidable in her own polite way. Might be too much for Trent to cope with.”

“
Do you think she could get . . . violent?”

“
Probably not. But when the shit’s approaching the fan, my strategy is to lie early and lie often. You can buy some time, send Apurva home appeased, then figure out your long-term plan.”

“
Sensible advice, Rick. How did you get to be so wise?”

“
A difficult childhood, Violet. It works every time.”

Trent has all the luck. Not only is he sleeping nightly with his flexible mistress, but he will soon be reunited with his loving wife. Personally, I would be content to achieve even one of those pleasant states.

4:28 p.m. During today’s matinee, Mrs. Fulke wandered over to the Batur encampment to chat up Tarkan’s mom. Mrs. Batur not that unattractive considering she has seven kids and a moustache. The whole clan travels in a giant truck-like caravan pulled by a big semi-tractor. She was alone with just the two little ones, so she invited Mrs. Fulke in for a cup of strong Turkish coffee and some homemade sweets. Most impressed by her homemaking skills. Interior of polished dark wood neat as a pin and you could eat off any surface. Eventually, the girl chat got around to the topic of her handsome eldest son’s marital prospects.

“
I trust you’ve selected a suitable girl for him from your village,” I said.

“
Our home is in Istanbul, Mrs. Fuck. It’s hardly a village.”

“
That’s Fulke. I’m Scottish, you know. But certainly you wish your son to marry a Turkish girl.”

“
I wish him to marry a girl who will make him happy. And give us lovely grandchildren.”

“
But, of course, she must be of your faith.”

“
That would be nice, Mrs. Fulke. We are Christians, you know.”

“
Oh.”

I thought that guy on the wall looked a lot like Jesus. Damn. Who’d have thought they’d have Christians in far-off Turkey?

“
Your Tarkan is exhibiting some signs of an inclination toward Miss Vesely.”

“
Reina is a lovely girl. And so patient in training her dear parrots.”

“
She’s Czech, you know.”

“
Her family is many generations in the circus and very well thought of. Has she sent you as her emissary to arrange the marriage details?” she asked, beaming expectantly.

Somehow our chat had gone seriously off-course.

“
Er, no,” I replied. “It is my understanding that Miss Vesely is engaged to Mr. Mestan.”

“
I do not believe that to be the case, Mrs. Fulke,” she replied, still smiling but not as radiantly.

“
Oh? Are you aware she named one of her parrots after Mr. Mestan?”

“
That is of no consequence. It was before she met my son.”

It was time, I decided, for desperate measures.

“
Because of her accident, Miss Vesely is incapable of bearing children!”

No longer smiling, Mrs. Batur sipped her coffee, then spoke. “I don’t know what your interest in this matter is, Mrs. Fulke. I understood you to be employed here as an animal attendant. I did not feel it was my place to inquire why someone of your age and sex would want such a job. I can tell you that my husband has made discreet inquiries with Reina’s aunt in Paris. Madame Ruzicka assured him that there were no medical impediments to her niece enjoying a happy and prolific marriage. Now, if you will excuse me, I must begin our dinner preparations.”

Setting down her cup and mumbling inanities, Mrs. Fulke lurched from the scene.

What a disaster. Why are parents these days so fucking progressive, enlightened, and tolerant? All parents, that is, except my own?

10:38 p.m. No TV, no radio, no book, no wife, no life. So I bought a bag of mixed nuts (no discount) and watched both evening performances. According to the law of averages, one of these days Tarkan is going to slip and be trampled by his ponies. Try as I might I could think of no scheme to hasten that tragedy. Villains in cowboy movies slip a burr under the hero’s saddle, but Tarkan does his tricks bareback. Sudden noises can spook most horses, but circus ponies are inured to the loudest din. Perhaps enterprising Jiri will be more successful.

Curiously, I find I’m beginning to identify with our show. I get upbeat like the others when there’s a straw house (sell-out performance), and smile proudly when the townies are enthusiastic like they were tonight. As they clapped and stomped, I found myself wishing they were applauding me. Even Omar and Ajax, I notice, step livelier when the crowd cheers. Perhaps that’s what everyone needs to get out of bed in the morning: an adoring public.

SUNDAY, July 31, 1:42 a.m. — Reina just left. She unexpectedly dropped by the camel sty to discuss my conversation with Tarkan’s mom. News gets around fast. All I could offer her were some well-bruised oranges, a seat on a hay bale, and Mrs. Fulke’s embarrassed apologies.

“
The Baturs were quite mystified by you, Rick,” she commented, peeling her orange. “They asked me if I thought Jiri had bribed you to say such things.”

I groaned and knocked my head against the partition, startling my roommates on the other side. A cascade of camel piss splashed against the corroded floor.

“
I said I didn’t think so,” she continued, “and suggested that one has to make allowances for the eccentricities of the aged.”

“
That was nice of you, Reina dear.”

“
It’s a good thing you’re such a hard worker, Rick. Mr. Batur commented that the pony van has never been so clean. He’s inclined to overlook your interference in this matter.”

“
That’s nice of him. I guess. Are you going to marry that turkey?”

“
I believe people from Turkey are called Turks, Rick. As for Tarkan and me, I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind.”

“
The guy is totally wrong for you, Reina.”

“
I think I know him considerably better than you do, Rick.”

“
You can’t marry Jiri either. He’s going to live maybe another decade tops. You want to be a widow before you’re 30?”

“
Jiri’s making an effort to cut back on his smoking, Rick.”

“
From what—14 packs a day to 12? What’s the big rush, Reina? You’re only 17.”

“
I’m nearly 18, Rick. And you should talk. Why did you get married so young?”

A good question. Reading back through my journal, though, it seemed like quite a sensible idea at the time.

“
OK, Reina darling, here’s the solution: you wait a couple of years, I get all my personal affairs straightened out, and then we get married. If Sheeni has her baby, we can adopt it. She’s said many times that motherhood doesn’t interest her. Then we have a few more babies of our own. No problem there. Unlike Jiri and Tarkan, I’ve already proven that I’m fertile.”

Reina handed me an orange section, and we masticated in quiet communion. Finally, she swallowed and spoke.

“
In two years, Rick, you may be back in California. You and Sheeni may be together again and happily raising your daughter. You may have forgotten all about me by then.”

“
Not possible, Reina. I love you. I’ll always love you.”